furs, to be whirled along the frozen Neva to a ball at the Winter
Palace, there to valse with one's Mary among all the beauty and chivalry
of St. Petersburg, and never a soul to find fault with one's valsing,
which at first was far from perfect, or one's attire, which was not that
of the fashionable world of the day, nor was Mary's either. We were
aesthetic people, and very Greek, who made for ourselves fashions of our
own, which I will not describe.

[Illustration:]

Where have we not waltzed together, from Buckingham Palace downward? I
confess I grew to take a delight in valsing, or waltzing, or whatever it
is properly called; and although it is not much to boast of, I may say
that after a year or two no better dancer than I was to be found in
all Vienna.

And here, by the way, I may mention what pleasure it gave me (hand in
hand with Mary, of course, as usual) to renew and improve my
acquaintance with our British aristocracy, begun so agreeably many years
ago at Lady Cray's concert.

Our British aristocracy does not waltz well by any means, and lacks
lightness generally; but it may gratify and encourage some of its
members to hear that Peter Ibbetson (ex-private soldier, architect and
surveyor, convict and criminal lunatic), who has had unrivalled
opportunities for mixing with the cream of European society, considers
our British aristocracy quite the best-looking, best-dressed, and
best-behaved aristocracy of them all, and the most sensible and the
least exclusive--perhaps the most sensible _because_ the least
exclusive.